Breaths of Suspicion

by Roy Lewis

  ‘I read an account of all this in The Times,’ I muttered, but my pulse was beginning to race.

  ‘There were few sightings of his lordship after he began his walk, though he was seen near the ancient Abbey. At about half past four, some woodmen saw him leaning against a gate, apparently reading. At first they thought it was his brother, Lord Titchfield, but they then realized that it was, in fact, Lord George. They did not address him; as they passed by he ignored them, appearing deep in thought.’

  ‘What has this got to do with me?’ I demanded suddenly.

  Inspector Redwood had the temerity to smile at me. ‘Ah, well, Mr James, it is a well-attested fact that Lord George held certain strong views about you.’

  ‘Among many others,’ I growled, irritated.

  ‘And we are speaking to others apart from you, Mr James,’ Redwood replied blandly. ‘But in view of the bad blood between you, I consider it wise that we should talk. You will have read the reports and you will be aware that the body of Lord George was found early on the Monday morning. He had not appeared at the home of Lord Manvers, and after waiting until evening the valet had returned alone in the trap. So it was only after some hours that the alarm was raised, a search of the surrounding area was instigated and the body was found near the footpath leading to the ruined Abbey.’

  I was having difficulty breathing. I glanced around at the passing groups: litigants, lawyers, pamphlet hawkers, sellers of pies. ‘You seem to be treating this as a murder inquiry, but I have read that there were no signs of violence on his corpse,’ I said savagely.

  ‘No one has yet mentioned murder, Mr James! But as to signs of violence, that is so. Apart from one large bruise, high on the chest,’ Redwood replied, watching me keenly. ‘And I may say the post mortem investigation proved … inconclusive.’

  ‘I still don’t know why you’re talking to me. How can I help you in this business?’

  ‘Well, sir, a number of rumours have been circulating since his lordship’s death. Regarding quarrels he has had recently—’

  ‘Of which there have been a large number, I’ve no doubt,’ I muttered.

  ‘We have already investigated a rumoured dispute he had with his elder brother, the Marquis of Titchfield—’

  I had already picked up on that one: Charlie Wilkins, who had a fine ear for gossip, had recently told me the dispute concerned a certain lady, a Miss Barkley. She took the Marquis to court, incidentally, a year later, averring he had gone through a ceremony of marriage with her, he using the pseudonym Druce. But that’s by the way. Redwood was waiting for my reaction. I kept my own counsel.

  Redwood sighed. ‘And there is the quarrel he has of long standing with Mr Greville, his cousin. He has been interviewed. There have been others I have had discussions with, not least among the racing fraternity, John Day, Squire Osbaldeston—’

  ‘With whom he once fought a duel,’ I muttered.

  ‘Quite so and there are others but … ah … it was during such discussions that your name came up again.’

  ‘Lord George made no secret of his views as far as I was concerned.’

  ‘You saw him as an enemy?’

  ‘He saw me as one.’

  ‘And your view of the matter?’

  ‘I have no reason to answer that question.’

  Inspector Redwood was not put out of countenance. He nodded, smiled again, baring his yellowing teeth. He had shaven badly that morning; he scratched the dark stubble on his cheek with a thoughtful finger. ‘But as a matter of interest, what were you doing that Sunday, Mr James, the afternoon Lord George died?’

  I turned my head to glare at him. ‘I consider it none of your business, Redwood, but if you must know, I was working at my chambers in Inner Temple Lane.’

  His tone was lugubrious. ‘But according to my information, gleaned from the newspapers, you were attending the Assizes at Nottingham that week. You were briefed on the matter of a certain Drury Lane actress claiming breach of promise by a certain well-respected member of the House of Lords—’

  ‘The matter was concluded on Saturday. Successfully. I immediately returned to London,’ I lied.

  ‘I see.… And on the Sunday, in your chambers, you were alone?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘So there is no corroboration—’

  ‘I see no need for you to seek any,’ I snapped.

  ‘So it would have been impossible for you to be anywhere near the footpath where the accident occurred, that day?’

  ‘For what purpose would I be there?’ I countered.

  I had already given him the lie; it would be his problem to find me out in that lie. Certainly, none of the men who really knew of my whereabouts that day would be inclined to talk to the police. I felt on safe ground, but nevertheless I was trembling.

  Redwood did not seem disturbed, but I felt he was aware of my little evasions. He merely smiled again, in that wolfish way he had, sat in quiet contemplation for a short while then folded his notebook into his pocket and stood up. His tone was falsely apologetic. ‘It’s merely there have been rumours, and one must follow all lines of inquiry. But I am grateful for your assurances. Should any further questions be necessary I know your address in chambers. Good day to you, Mr James.’

  I did not rise with him, nor follow him immediately from the Great Hall. My thighs were twitching, and I was weak at the knees. It was several minutes before I regained control of myself and on quivering limbs made my way back to Inner Temple Lane.

  Ah, yes, I’m not surprised you ask me again about that meeting at the Abbey Hotel, and the men I met there that day. Who were they? Well, let me say that when Bentinck burst in on us, he was correct in his description of them as rogues. I’ve told you that one was a man I had represented already: Edward Agar. At Lewis Goodman’s behest I had got him off a charge of passing forged notes, as I have already related. He walked free on that day, but whether or not the notes had been planted on him by the police on that occasion, matters little: he really did make a living as a forger of banknotes. An activity for which he paid the penalty, eventually. Transportation for fourteen years.

  Agar was also a known associate of James Townshend Saward, who was seated beside him that day at the Abbey Inn. At that time I knew only that Saward was a barrister who had been called to the Inner Temple about 1840, I believe. He had chambers close to mine in Inner Temple Lane, but appeared rarely in the courts. Much later I learned that he had always been more proficient with the forger’s pen than the practice of the law: indeed, he was known among the criminal fraternity by the sobriquet of Jem the Penman, and he and Agar worked together for some years stealing blank cheques and presenting them for payment with forged signatures. When things got too hot for them in London they removed their predations to the south coast and elsewhere in the provinces. Saward was caught passing forged cheques at Great Yarmouth some years later. He faced his trial at the Old Bailey in 1857, and was transported to Australia for fourteen years, shortly before Agar.

  Lewis Goodman had called me to the meeting. I have already told you about him: a person with wide criminal connections, a rogue who held me in a tight financial grip, a night house owner, a member of the swell mob, a man to be feared. The last person present that afternoon was the banker and Member of Parliament, John Sadleir. I’ll tell you more of him later because he was to play another important role in my rise—and my downfall.…

  Yes, yes, you’re right to upbraid me! I’ve lost my drift again. Where was I?

  Ah, yes. The Horsham by-election. It was over, and young Jervis had triumphed, albeit briefly, and his success had been due to my considerable exertions. His father, the Attorney General, had good reason to be grateful to me, not merely because of my activities as his son’s election agent—unsuccessful though they might have been in the end—but also for the manner, at the cost of my own reputation, that I had salvaged his from the taint of corruption.

  I have said that Sir John was a good promiser. And in that
he showed himself true to me. When the noise and chatter over Horsham had died down he showed himself true to his word: I was gazetted by the Lord Chancellor as one of Her Majesty’s Counsel. I took silk, had become a senior practitioner at the Bar, and was now entitled to have the letters QC after my name with a consequent considerable rise in fees. But I had not entirely escaped the echoes of the business at Horsham.

  The fact is, as a member of the Inner Temple I would have rightly and reasonably expected, upon my elevation to Queen’s Counsel, to be automatically elected as a Bencher of my Inn—that is, one of the senior members responsible for conduct of the Inn, as was Charlie Wilkins, already at Serjeants’ Inn. This automatic elevation was undertaken by a vote of the already elected Benchers. And it was normally a matter of formality only. But to my fury and chagrin I was not elected. I was blackballed, as I had been at the Carlton Club election years earlier.

  Thus, I had the doubtful honour of being the first Queen’s Counsel ever to fail election as a Bencher of his Inn.

  I was humiliated, of course, and furious. But it was my old friend Charlie Wilkins who explained it to me. We sat in Evans’s that evening, before the really raucous singing had started, and, tugging at his luxuriant side whiskers in a somewhat embarrassed fashion, Charlie said, ‘You’ve made too many enemies, James, that’s the plain truth of it.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I demanded truculently.

  ‘You’re too controversial … and too successful as well, if the truth be known. And then there’s your Radical views. The Benchers are Tories to a man. Oh, yes, the Old Bailey judges like you—they enjoy your quips and your rhetoric—but there are others who deem you too flippant, if you know what I mean. A capital man to a jury, yes, but sometimes it puts the noses of your opponents out of joint. And then there’s the business of Horsham.…’

  ‘My agency at Horsham has nothing to do with the Benchers of my Inn!’ I snapped. ‘It was beyond their jurisdiction, a private matter and—’

  ‘I agree, my friend, but it ain’t about jurisdiction, is it? It’s about emotions, feelings of moral panic, their sense of probity—’

  ‘Probity!’ I exploded. ‘What did I do at Horsham that the other side didn’t do—if not as efficiently?’

  ‘But that’s part of the problem,’ Wilkins explained patiently, his big, beefy, restraining hand on my arm. ‘They saw what you did, and muttered about it in the Inn, and to top it all there was the sleight of hand you displayed with that rogue Padwick.’ He chuckled. ‘A master stroke, if I may say so, protecting Sir John Jervis that way. But to some of the aristocratic noses on the Bench it was all a little too … clever.’

  The Judge and Jury skit was just starting up and ‘Chief Baron’ Renton was beginning his salacious routine. I was hardly aware of the mock trial he conducted as I sat there fuming with a brandy and water on the table before me. I had my own personal trials to mull over in discontent.

  ‘Anyway, James,’ said Wilkins, patting my knee, ‘so you’re not a Bencher. It’s an insult—the first QC ever to be refused election at his Inn—but it’s not important, not where it counts. It ain’t going to affect your professional career!’

  And Charlie was right. It was a snub by my peers, it was an insult, but I still had the support of Cockburn, Sir John Jervis and Viscount Palmerston. The Treasury briefs continued to pour in; as a QC I was able to command higher fees and I found myself soon enough alongside Alexander Cockburn again. We formed an effective partnership, and when Sir John Jervis suddenly died and Cockburn took his place as Attorney General, I became Cockburn’s right-hand man in the handling of important Treasury briefs.

  That was how I came to be beside him in the most sensational murder prosecution of the age. Unfortunately, once again, it raised considerable controversy.

  And I was mired in the middle of it.

  2

  Although I had largely set my back on Basinghall Street Bankruptcy Court I was still in regular receipt of briefs that called for my experience in financial matters, and it was one of these that led me into the biggest criminal trial of the decade. It was my financial acumen and experience of bankruptcy hearings that first brought me face to face with the fraudulent surgeon, rogue and horse-fancier Billy Palmer.

  I had already used Ben Gully over a delicate matter that involved some detective work into the activities of Lord Cardigan—you’ll recall him, the numb-skulled hero of the charge of the Light Brigade—and a certain lady of quality who was accustomed to welcoming the gallant cavalryman to her drawing room on afternoons when her husband was at his club. When the case later came on—a crim.con. action—Gully’s evidence as to what went on between the pair, astride her ladyship’s settee, while Gully was ensconced underneath the same item of furniture, caused a week-long sensation in the press. We met regularly, Gully and I, to exchange information and when I asked him to provide me with details regarding Billy Palmer it was at our usual meeting place: Stunning Sam’s in Panton Street.

  Stunning Sam’s.

  Ahhh.… The name brings back memories. I might mention that my first personal acquaintance with the clap was the result of an encounter at Stunning Sam’s. The donor in question was a tall, blonde young lady who went by the name of Sovrina and claimed to be Russian, of noble extraction, naturally. Her speciality was that she could unbreech you with a few flicks of the wrist, and then, while your ankles were still encumbered Sovrina, dressed only in highly polished leather boots, would grab you around the neck, climb aboard with her long legs wrapped around your hips, and after she’d wriggled around somewhat to obtain the necessary docking, she’d apply a light riding whip to your buttocks and persuade you to stagger around the room. Quite stimulating, really. As you lurched around in this hobbled fashion she’d call out ‘Avanti! Avanti!’ Although she persisted in claiming she was Russian, it would seem Italian was her preferred language of passion.

  I’m not sure what finally happened to her. Went to France I believe, married a count. But then, every other Frenchman I’ve met since the end of the Revolution has claimed to be a count. As most upper class whores have claimed to be of noble Russian extraction.

  But all that’s neither here nor there.

  Stunning Sam. He was an amiable enough fellow, and his nickname certainly did not arise as a consequence of a handsome appearance: he had a shaven head, lantern jaw, nose broken in several places, knuckles like paving bricks. But I never made inquiry as to the origins of his sobriquet. I felt to do so might be unwise, and I’d learn more than I wished. I suspected it had something to do with the cudgel he kept behind the bar, always available to settle drunken disputes in his presence. But his establishment in Panton Street was a well-known location for cigars, chops, drink and varied entertainment in a few upstairs rooms where one could be accommodated with young ladies. Not the habituées of the Haymarket, or the dollymops of Leicester Square. No, more discreet, a little refined, a lady you could have conversation with, if that was your intention. With Sovrina, of course, the intention was to hear her expound her limited vocabulary of Italian while demonstrating her ability as a horsewoman.

  Anyway, as I was saying, Stunning Sam’s was the particular establishment at which I usually met Ben Gully, out of sentiment I suppose. Memories of Sovrina, and the discomforts she visited upon me later.…

  I entered the narrow doorway and walked through the dim, familiar passageway until it opened out into the saloon: a scattering of high-backed Coburg chairs, a haze of cigar smoke, sporting prints yellowing on the walls, dark-panelled corners protected by wooden screens, the odours of stale ale and discreet sex. I sat down near one of the grimy, diamond-paned windows, called for a brandy and water and awaited Ben Gully’s arrival. I had had a good morning that day: success in a fifty guinea brief. I was prepared to relax for an hour.

  I could tell by the look on Ben’s battered features when he came in that he didn’t entirely approve of my choice of meeting place. He looked around him, his mouth twisting.
‘You know Stunning Sam’s not the owner here,’ Ben muttered, controlling his wandering eye. ‘He fronts for Lewis Goodman.’

  ‘Goodman doesn’t seem to be much in evidence these days,’ I observed.

  Ben nodded. ‘The story is, he’s gone to France because of his daughter. Some frog’s got her in the family way—married Army officer, apparently—and Goodman has gone dancing off in a rage to rescue her. Leastways, that’s what I hear. But I got my own suspicions. My guess is he’s left these shores because he’s got other reasons than family: maybe things have been getting too hot for him.’

  He was probably right in his surmise. I looked him over. For our meeting Ben had dressed with some care. His frequently rearranged features still betrayed some of the results of the daily vicissitudes of his existence, but he wore a high stock, a sober dark coat with polished bone buttons, and high boots. The nap on his hat was still good, and his stick of dark walnut gleamed with polish. The heavy brass handle told me it was appropriate not just for show: it also provided a useful means of defence. Or, more likely, assault.

  I pushed in his direction the mug of porter I had previously ordered and as he sat down I picked up my own brandy and water. ‘I haven’t seen much of you lately, Ben,’ I announced cheerfully. ‘And you’re looking quite the swell.’

  Ben’s odd eye swivelled as he took in his surroundings. ‘Been out and about.’

  ‘Noon’s Folly, for the Bendigo Boy battle?’ I hazarded a guess.

  Do you follow the practice of the Noble Art, my boy? I guess not, spending so much time at sea. You’ll be more familiar with dockside barroom brawls, I imagine. Well, Noon’s Folly was one of the best known places for the prize fights, and was located a few miles from Royston where the counties of Cambridge, Suffolk, Essex and Hertfordshire meet. The magistrates were supposed to interfere, of course, to stop the public display of pugilism but in reality they themselves attended in droves, while hoping the fight did not fall within their personal jurisdictions. Ben Caunt had recently battled at Noon’s Folly with the Bendigo Boy, over two and a half hours. Ninety-three rounds were fought but constant threats of the police forced them to move from Newport Pagnell, then to Stony Stratford, on to Wheddon Green and finally Lutfield Green. The crowd followed the pugilists over more than thirty miles before the battle was awarded to Bendigo.